The WorldSaving Properties of Hot Threesome Sex
by opalish
Summary: Harry's straight, he really is. Unfortunately, no one believes it but him. HarryLunaBlaise crackfic AHOY.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

This is so very cracked out, even for me. I'm posting it now because I'm sleep-deprived and my judgment is shot to hell, but it's entirely possible that after I've had a good nap I'll realize what I've done, panic, and delete this forever and ever amen.

* * *

(Harry Potter and) The World-Saving Properties of Hot Threesome Sex

* * *

The whole mess started after the Cho Incident under the mistletoe. Okay, so their kiss hadn't exactly been chock full of rockets and shooting stars and Pepper-Up Potions and Cheering Charms. In fact, it hadn't been much more than, well, kind of soggy. As far as Harry was concerned, that just meant he really shouldn't go around snogging people who couldn't control their tear ducts. Or, he recalled with a shudder, their tongues.

But no one else really seemed to see it that way, which he discovered after three or four days of Colin stalking him even more relentlessly than usual. "Why won't he leave me alone?" Harry demanded. His voice cracked rather embarrassingly on the last word, because the universe and his own bloody hormones hated him _that_ _much_.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighed, which—as Harry well knew—meant that she thought he was being endearingly thick and adorably emotionally stunted. Ron scowled, because whenever _he_ acted all clueless and dazed and emotionally stunted, Hermione shrieked a lot and then hexed him. "He has a crush."

"On who?" Harry asked blankly, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"On you, of course."

"It's pretty hard to miss, mate," Ron agreed.

Harry stared. "Er."

"'Course, he's obviously not your type," Ron went on a bit scornfully.

"Well, no," Harry agreed slowly. "What with him being a _him_. And, you know, a _him_."

Ron blinked. "Um. Right," he said, not sounding particularly convinced. Hermione just sighed again.

* * *

Harry got a little…paranoid, after that. He started watching people, and he couldn't help but notice how girls kept giving him these soulful, disappointed looks, the same looks they'd been giving Blaise Zabini since he officially came out the year before.

On the one hand, Harry was sort of surprised and gratified that he ranked up there with Zabini on the 'goddammit, I would have totally hit that' scale, because even he had to admit that the Slytherin was pretty good-looking. But on the other hand, _what the hell_.

"I like girls, you know," he told Ginny Weasley disconsolately one afternoon, after he caught Blaise giving him The Eye from across the Great Hall. He leaned in quite close to her, but Michael Corner just smiled at them indulgently, not a hint of jealousy in his eyes.

Harry decided that he hated everyone. Would it have killed Corner to look just a little threatened?

"Of course you do," Ginny agreed in a let's-humor-the-poor-terminally-closeted-boy. "I expect you're just confused."

"I'm not confused!" Harry cried.

"No, no, I can see that," Ginny said soothingly. She rolled her eyes at her boyfriend, who smirked. Harry was really starting to loathe this whole saucy-redheaded-spitfire thing Ginny had going on.

Zabini blew him a kiss. Harry manfully fought back a flood of _extremely heterosexual _tears.

* * *

"I'm not gay," Harry sullenly told Zabini in Potions. Snape, in an entirely-too-characteristic act of casual malice, had partnered them up for the entire week.

"So you won't bottom, then," Zabini translated resignedly. "Well. I suppose I'm still up for it anyway." He paused, then grinned. "Wink wink, nudge nudge."

Harry gave up and slumped forward, letting his head hit the table with a loud thunk. "Ten points from Gryffindor for disrupting the class," Snape immediately said with an unpleasant smile.

"I hate the entire world," Harry sighed.

Zabini pouted.

* * *

"I'm really not gay, you know," Harry told Hermione and Ron a little desperately. _Draco Malfoy_ had been leering at him all day, and that was just…not on.

Hermione shook her head sadly. "This constant self-denial is only hurting you, Harry," she told him in an informative twelve-steps-to-a-healthier-you sort of way. "We all love you just the way you are, you know, though I expect we could do without some of the shouting. But there's absolutely nothing wrong with being attracted to other boys."

"Unless it's Crabbe or Goyle," Ron interjected helpfully. "Or Snape."

"Unless it's Crabbe or Goyle. Or Snape," Hermione agreed, ever the unquestioningly supportive best friend. "Or that wanker Anthony Goldstein."

Harry, puzzled by Hermione's sudden aversion to a perfectly decent and rather nondescript Ravenclaw, glanced at Ron curiously. Run shrugged and mouthed, 'outscored her on a test', which, of course, explained everything.

"But really, Harry," Hermione continued, though a faint Goldstein-inspired frown lingered on, "it should have been obvious to us all right from the very start. Ron told me you used to have dreams during first year, begging someone to let you out of the closet--"

"Cupboard," Ron corrected around a mouthful of chocolate frog.

"And it hardly takes a Divinations expert to interpret that," Hermione finished, infuriatingly smugly.

Harry fixed them both with a long, poisonous glare. "Hermione," he said, as patiently as he possibly could, "I had nightmares about being locked in a cupboard _**BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE MY RELATIVES KEPT ME FOR TEN FULL YEARS OF MY LIFE.**_"

His best friends stared at him mutely. "Oh," Ron said. "Right. Bastards."

"Well," Hermione said, eying him with a disconcertingly clinical interest. "No wonder you're always shouting. But still," she added, recovering magnificently, "that doesn't mean you aren't bent as a Malfoy."

* * *

The corridor was blissfully empty—just Harry and his shadow and his reflection in the window. It was the perfect place for a misunderstood and burdened student to go be angsty for a while.

"I'm not gay," he told his glassy, translucent reflection. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, obviously." He'd actually thought about trying to be gay for a while, just because Vernon feared and hated homosexuality nearly as much as he feared and hated magic, and if there was one thing Harry enjoyed about living with his relatives, it was tormenting them. "But I really do like girls."

"I believe you," an ethereal voice intoned from a dark corner, and Harry jumped, pulse racing as he turned to see Luna Lovegood staring at him, her gaze wide and hazy.

"Er. Hi," he said, weakly.

"There, there," she said absently. "Have I given you a scare? You should go find Blaise, I'm sure he'll comfort you. I've heard that sex works quite well as a relaxation technique."

She blinked at him a few times, her eyes very blue in the dim light. Harry wondered if she was trying to communicate by Morse code or something.

"I thought you believed me," he said, rather put out.

"Oh, I do," Luna agreed. "Which is why I'm more than willing to join in."

Harry blinked back at her, and hoped he wasn't saying anything like 'oh yes, that sounds like sexy good fun!' in Morse.

"Oh. Uh. That's…I'll just be…somewhere else," he croaked. Even Snape would've been impressed by the sheer amount of discipline it took to stop the mental images from forming. "Somewhere very…else."

* * *

Madam Puddifoot's was hell, pure and simple. Cho was clingy and insecure and, well, soggy; the little cupids kept leering at him (apparently even _they_ thought he was bent); and he could still see Hermione's disapproving frown in his mind's eye—"You really shouldn't lead her on like that, Harry, it's not fair to either of you."

Plus, ever since word of the date spread around Hogwarts, Zabini had been wearing this…shattered, woebegone sort of look on his face. Girls from every house kept glaring at Harry and whispering to each other about his cruel heart-breaking ways; Parkison sniffed disdainfully whenever she saw him and muttered things like, "I bet you kick puppies, too, Potter, and I hope you choke on all that candy you probably steal from babies."

Then there was Snape, who delighted in taking a massive number of points from Gryffindor in revenge for Harry crushing all of Zabini's hopes and dreams or whatever. Which was just…no. Harry knew the Wizarding World was, well, not exactly logical or reasonable, but he was almost positive professors weren't allowed to take points because he wouldn't have sweaty gay sex with another student. He even considered going to McGonagall about it, but every time he tried to imagine the ensuing conversation, his brain literally shut down.

And now Cho was crying again, and screeching about his ardent love for Hermione or something, and then his ardent love for Zabini, and there was something in there about 'all those mysterious detentions with Snape, you little manslut', which he refused to even hear because, well, he was too young to die just yet.

"You know," he told Neville that night, after he was back in Gryffindor Tower and safely hidden from Skeeter's leading questions ("Focus on the imminent genocide, woman!"), Hermione's disappointed gaze, Cho's tear ducts, and Snape's…Snapeness. "I kind of wish I _were_ gay."

"That's nice, Harry," Neville said, and carefully edged away.

* * *

Gryffindors, Harry reminded himself, were brave and reckless and decisive. And it was about time he acted like a proper Gryffindor, not to mention a proper teenaged boy.

He set out to find Luna, but she was nowhere to be seen, and everyone looked at him oddly when he asked if they knew where she might be hiding. "You want to talk to _Loony_?" was the general response, though those cries were interspersed with the occasional, "You want to find a _girl?_"

Eventually, he figured that, as the girl in question _was_ Luna Lovegood, the best way to find her would be to let her find him. She generally popped up whenever he was alone somewhere being all angst-ridden and horribly misunderstood, after all. So, feeling rather cunning, he found an abandoned corridor and lounged against a wall for a while, trying to look emo.

"You raaaaang?" Luna said, suddenly appearing from behind a suit of rusted armor.

"Er, sure," Harry agreed, trying not to be too weirded out. This probably wouldn't work out very well, if he was too weirded out. "I just, um, wanted to ask if, you know. Well. If you're still up for, er, you know--"

Luna tilted her head to the side, interrupting his babbling with a conspiratorial, "Ssh. I must consult the Jibberwabbs that float ever-so-lightly on the sprightly breeze."

Harry wondered if it was too late to run away screaming.

Then Luna smiled, and he had to admit she had quite a nice smile. "The Jibberwabbs say that today is an excellent day for forging new connections. And for hot threesome action," she told him, and the hall suddenly seemed considerably warmer.

"Right," he said, his voice gone all wobbly and high-pitched. "Good. Er. So do you think—er, that Zabini…"

"Difficult to say. But come, follow me, young Gryffindor Lion!" Luna said imperiously. "For I have formulated a plan most intricate and clever, guaranteed to win over any boy in a heartbeat."

"Well," Harry said dubiously, "you're the Ravenclaw, I suppose."

She considered this carefully. "Yes," she eventually agreed. "I am."

* * *

Luna's complex and cunning plan apparently involved snagging Zabini on his way to class and saying, loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the immediate area, "You, me, Harry. Abandoned classroom, one hour from now. Lots of bodily fluids to be exchanged. What d'you say? RSVP."

Harry choked. Zabini gaped for a moment, then grinned, slow and, well, kind of sexy. The crowded hallway went very, very quiet.

"Go Potter," someone said, awed.

"Can we watch?" someone else begged.

"Only if you pay for it," Harry heard himself reply, and just like that, Blaise's gaze went from cautiously interested to hopelessly lustful. It figured, Harry thought dazedly, that a Slytherin would get off on shamelessness and extortion. Not to mention shameless extortion.

"Screw 'one hour from now'," Zabini said in a low voice that had a few of the boys and most of the girls in the vicinity looking about ready to start screaming his name and throwing him their underwear. "We're going _now_."

"Er," Harry said, suddenly uncertain, but then Luna and Blaise were frog-marching him away, and, well, at least they weren't getting snot and tears all over him or screeching accusations about his passionate super-secret affair with Snape.

* * *

Hot interhouse threesomes, Harry discovered, were not only an excellent way to bridge the Slytherin-Gryffindor divide in times of war ("Uniting from within," Blaise snickered, "Get it? From _within_? Wink wink, nudge nudge"), but also proved to be quite useful when it came to clearing one's mind. Who knew the key to Occlumency was constant athletic sex?

And, okay, so Harry didn't exactly want his mind to be cleared, but mysterious hallways of doom or not, he wasn't about to give up sexy bedroom hijinks just for the sake of a few bizarre dreams.

"Thank Merlin Zabini managed to get you in hand. No wonder you were useless before," Snape said, shaking his head. Harry leaned backwards, lest he be hit by flying hair-grease. The Spittle of Rage was bad enough. "All those suppressed hormonal urges…"

"I don't think this is entirely appropriate," Harry said rather faintly, because a world where Snape could talk about Blaise having him in hand was not a world he particularly wanted to save.

"Just…keep it up, Potter," Snape commanded irritably, which was almost enough to ensure that Harry was physically incapable of getting or keeping it up ever again. "Our very lives—the future of the Wizarding Wolrd—may depend on it."

"I'm almost positive this isn't appropriate," Harry said. He glanced down at himself and added a woeful, "No pressure, little guy."

Snape made an odd sound in the back of his throat, and Harry froze. He darted a quick glance at his professor who, he was positive, would have no problem spreading embarrassing rumors about him even if he _was_ boffing a Slytherin. "I mean. Uh. Not-so-little-guy."

Snape bared his teeth and rolled his eyes so violently that he looked a bit rabid. This was, Harry realized with dawning horror, Snape's amused face.

"Legilimens!"

* * *

"I knew you liked boys," Hermione said victoriously. She did her patented 'ahaha_ha_, I totally called this from a mile away, for I am wise and clever and know all' boogie, which largely involved her hopping in place, punching the air, and getting her hair in everyone's faces.

"Luna," Harry reminded her serenely, once he'd spat out a clump of frizzy brown strands. Some of Hermione's entirely-intellectual-not-at-all-prurient triumph faded away.

"Bit weird, that Lovegood girl," Ron said, which as far as Harry could tell was his only real opinion about his best mate's unusual relationship. There was a reason the redhead was probably Harry's favorite person ever. Ron was a special kind of simple in a complicated world.

"True," Harry agreed happily. The thing about Luna was that she had all sorts of crazy ideas about all sorts of odd subjects pretty much all the time--and it could be alarming, yeah, but sometimes she really struck gold. Most often whilst naked. Harry _liked _naked ideas.

"Yes, but you and Blaise," Hermione persevered, because she generally preferred to pretend that Luna didn't exist. But that was okay, because Luna insisted that Hermione was actually just a manifestation of Harry's subconscious desire to excell in his classes.

Blaise pointed out that he saw Hermione, too, or at least her hair, which tended to obscure the rest of her and whoever was standing near her at the time. Luna had shrugged and replied that Harry's subconscious was a mighty subconscious, and that the Ministry feared it greatly, which was why they had enrolled a Fake Hermione in Subconscious Hermione's stead, so no one would ever suspect the strength of Harry's manly mindpowers. There might have been something about Nargles in there, too. Harry and Blaise had stared at her for a while in companionable confusion, and then there was sex.

"S'funny," Ron said, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, "Have you noticed that the more Zabini hums in Potions, the fewer points Snape takes from Gryffindor?"

"The happier the Slytherins are, the happier Snape is," Harry replied easily. He'd figured that one out all on his own, and Blaise wasn't exactly averse to being yanked into a nearby closet fifteen minutes before every Potions class.

"I really don't want to think about Professor Snape thinking about your sex life," Hermione muttered.

"I just wish he'd stop talking about it during my 'remedial lessons'," Harry sighed, and successfully scarred his best friends for life for, oh, at least the eleventh time since they'd met.

* * *

Predictably enough, when Umbridge learned about him and Luna and Blaise, she tried to ban 'unconventional' relationships at Hogwarts. But the toad-woman hadn't counted on the power of Slytherin solidarity, or, for that matter, Slytherin romanticism. Pansy and Millicent, both old friends of Blaise's, were notoriously soft touches when it came to things like kittens and unicorns and impossible love affairs, and they weren't about to let anyone stand in the way of their friend's Epic Romance.

No one ever discovered what they did, or how, but Umbridge disappeared the next day and was never seen again. The younger students cheerfully claimed for weeks that on clear, quiet nights, you could hear Umbridge's screams echoing on the wind.

The school rejoiced. Trelawney predicted everyone would live long, happy, healthy lives full of babies and large bank vaults. Flitwick squeaked a lot and fell over at least twice. Sprout gave enormous bunches of man-eating roses to Pansy and Millicent, and wasn't even too upset when the slightly-gnawed girls shrieked and beat their gifts into submission.

McGonagall tearfully awarded Pansy and Millicent about a kajillion points during their next Transfiguration class ("Oh, what a lovely sneer, Parkinson, that's sixty points for Slytherin"; "Oh, Bulstrode, your transfigurations are always so delightfully and entertainingly _wrong_, that's eighty points to Slytherin"). She also gave Harry a warm hug that left him terrified and kind of hollow and cold on the inside, and announced that anyone who even looked at Luna wrong for the rest of the year would face horrific pain and degradation.

Blaise, shaking and wild-eyed, told them of his daring escape from her office, where she'd force-fed him biscuits and ruffled his hair until his scalp almost bled.

Umbridge was replaced as Defense professor by an ex-Auror who taught them dirty songs and some truly filthy Hit Wizard slang. As he was a Ministry stooge as well, they never actually got around to any practical lessons, but they all learned a lot of shocking new words so no one really minded.

A day before the end of the year, Dumbledore called Harry to his office and told him that, as his Occlumency was grounded in regular, um, _relations_ with his, er, boyfriend and girlfriend, the three of them would be staying together at Grimmauld Place over the summer (if, of course, they all agreed and had parental consent blah blah _blah_).

"Threesomes solve everything," Luna said happily when Harry told her and Blaise about the revised summer arrangements. Harry found that he agreed, especially when Kreacher took a strong liking to Blaise and told him that he'd been plotting with the Malfoys for some time.

"Said something about a locket and a Master Regulus, too," Blaise added thoughtfully. Harry dutifully reported this to Dumbledore, who immediately got all secretive and started talking to Sirius in low, excited tones in the dark corners of the house. After a disturbing month or two of this, he let Harry in on the Horcrux thing, and told him how Sirius had been helping him figure out the Puzzle of The Locket.

Harry was deeply frightened by the idea of all those Horcruxes, of course, but mostly he was ecstatic to be able to finally tell Blaise, with absolute certainty, that _No, _Dumbledore and Sirius were _not_ having a sordid affair.

And less than a year later, Voldemort was dead.

* * *

"Threesomes solve everything," Blaise said blithely, once Harry returned from the dead after his final showdown with the Dark Lord. "Oh, and while you were busy saving the world and kicking the bucket, Loony found out that she's pregnant. Mine, of course, for my sperm are potent sperm and yours are weak and pitiful and sad." He patted Luna's belly fondly.

"We ought to name it James Sirius," Harry said, mostly just to see Blaise scowl. He had quite an attractive scowl. "And my sperm are not pitiful. Or sad. I think they're quite strong and content, actually."

"James Sirius is a good name," Luna agreed. "It's going to be a girl, after all."

"Lily Sirius?" Harry offered, because his godfather had promised him quite a lot of money in exchange for a namesake or two.

"Um, no," Blaise replied, and six months later little Xenophilia Blaisette was born to three parents and four godparents (Harry insisted on Hermione and Ron, and Blaise threatened dire consequences if Draco and Pansy didn't get a share of the kid, too).

And all was well, even when Luna was banned forever from Hogwarts after she gave an extremely graphic lecture to the entire school about how vigorous and regular sex solved all of life's problems.

* * *

Um. Why, brain, why?


End file.
